Five Squared
by Parallel Monsoon
Summary: Five men. Five different classifications. Virgil is a Little without a Caregiver. Patton is a Caregiver who gives up everything to make others happy. Roman is a Dom who isn't dominant enough. Logan is a rare, proud Neutral who is tired of rejection. And Deceit...well, no one knows what the hell Deceit is.


Human AU based on a world where people are sorted into various 'classifications' determined by their reaction to stress and their primary instinctive drive. In a stressful situation Caregivers will attempt to protect and care for others. Doms will attempt to take control over the situation. Subs will give up control and follow others. Neutrals are unpredictable and seem to lack a single overwhelming drive. Littles are prone to involuntary age regression.

All classifications have legal rights and protections, but have different social expectations and carry their own stereotypes. A person may also have a secondary classification (such as Caregiver primary/Dom secondary.) Some classes are more common then others. People receive their classification in high school after a period of testing and observation. Your class is considered to be rigid and unchanging, and acting in a manner outside your class can bring negative attention.

(I have a whole host of notes for this AU that I might post later, should anyone be interested)

(Will have a combination of different types of relationships ranging from platonic to sexual and various combinations of characters in those relationships. There is no sex involved during regression.)

* * *

...careful...

...careful...

Virgil's tongue poked against his cheek. Eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, all of his focus on his hand's slow descent. One more block added to the stack and that would be four. One two three four...four blocks high!

The highest ever!

The blue block settled gently into place. Virgil grinned and bounced on his bottom, only just biting back a happy squeal. He stuffed his hand in his mouth, sucking on his fingers while he admired his masterpiece.

Four blocks. Green and yellow and red and blue.

But maybe...

There was still one block left. The **best** block. Virgil picked it up with his free hand, looking between it and his tower. Four, four was good. But maybe...

Maybe it could be five?

...careful...

Crash!

His hand bumped blue, bringing the stack tumbling down. Virgil flinched away, letting the last block (purple!) fall from his hand. He curled in on himself. Made himself small, hands over his ears and knees tucked in tight.

A mess. He'd...he'd made a mess.

He waited.

Waited for the yelling.

_Useless. Stupid. __**Bad**__. _

He waited...

Slowly Virgil found the courage to lift his head. He looked around...

Alone.

He was alone. Just Virgil, and he didn't know this room, all gray and strange. Gray carpet, gray curtains, and a big gray bed. Nothing else except his blocks, scattered and sad. The green and the red and the blue and yellow and the purple. Busy being not-friends, and it was all Virgil's fault.

Virgil picked up purple first. Purple was best. He had a big dent in one corner and his paint was duller then it used to be, but he was tough and strong and looked out for the rest.

Virgil bit his lip.

He threw purple! Threw him big, and now the wall had a scratch too, long and ugly. Then he threw the rest, one after another. One two three four five, and now, now...

Still no yelling.

Still just Virgil.

Virgil whined. He was wet and he was cold and he didn't know this place, this gray, gray room.

He was scared!

And that was dumb. He was being a dummy. Big boys don't get scared, not even when they're little. It was silly to be scared, and being silly was the **worst**.

He was crying. Like a baby, a stupid big dummy baby, and still...

...still no one came.

Virgil sobbed. Until he was sick with it, hiccuping up bile and snot in sticky strings. He lurched up, fell hard, and crawled the rest of the way to the wall where the blocks lay strewn.

"Sorry." He pulled purple into his lap, curling around the old wooden block and patting its scarred surface. "M' sorry. Sorry sorry sorry..."

He heard it then. Just soft, a little hum.

It got louder slowly. Not a hum but a buzz, shrill and piercing, and Virgil tucked his head down and tried to hide, because he **knew** that sound.

It made his head and tummy hurt. He didn't want to listen. Didn't want to let it in, but it just kept getting louder and it **hurt**, it hurt and he was so, so scared...

**Fuck**.

Virgil made it to his feet on his third try and staggered over to the bed. He fumbled for his phone, dismissing the alarm with a swipe of his thumb.

Too bright. Way too bright. The migraine was already setting in, the lights overhead haloed by a pulsing aura. He grabbed his sunglasses next, sighing in relief at the welcome gloom, and took stock.

**Gross**.

His top was a ruin, slick with mucus and vomit and fuck knew what else. His diaper was soaked through. It sagged between his legs and chaffed at his thighs, sparking a bright, itchy pain that made him grimace.

Ugh. He could **smell** himself.

Shower first. Virgil snagged a sippy cup off the floor on his way to the bathroom, popping the top and chugging the dregs. The juice was sickly sweet and had long since gone warm, but the taste lingering in his mouth was worse and the sugar helped chase away the lingering fog.

He bagged up the stained clothes to deal with it later and set the water as hot as he could get it.

Let the spray beat against his shoulders for a decadent ten minutes thankful the hotel had decent water pressure at least. When he finally felt clean he stepped out into the warm, steamy air and dried off, paying special attention to his groin.

The diaper rash never really healed anymore. Red raw, the worst of it blistered and oozing. Virgil smeared on the medicated ointment, fragrant and thick, and padded naked back out to the bedroom.

Time to clean up.

He was pleased to find the rubber-backed playmat had done an admirable job in protecting the drab carpet from piss and puke. It only took a few minutes to clear away the rest. The sippy cup, a bowl of dried-out carrot sticks, and five brightly colored blocks.

Strange, though, how the blocks lay on the far side of the room from the mat. Virgil's memories of the past few hours were hazy, like always. He remembered tears and fear and loneliness. The usual. Remembered...

Shit. Virgil scurried over and scooped up the purple block. He turned it over, studying it minutely, fingers lingering over every scuff and splinter. Nothing new.

The tension in his shoulders eased. Virgil rolled his eyes, disgusted by his own concern, and gathered up the rest. He tossed the lot into the bottom of his suitcase and turned his attention to the wall.

Welp. That was coming out of his security deposit for sure.

The room was Little safe, just like he'd requested, but that meant child locks on the cabinets and mini-fridge. Not a free pass to be a brat and fling things around.

But then, even a Little safe room wasn't meant for an unattended Little.

All in all, things could have gone much, much worse.

It was early yet, only just past ten, but Virgil crawled under the stiff, heavy quilt with a groan. He thought vaguely of unwashed sheets, of bedbugs and lice, but for once he didn't have the energy to be anxious.

One day down. Three more to go.

He still didn't know how he'd let Giles talk him into this. The man had been riding his ass for **years** about headlining a convention.

Hell, Virgil still couldn't believe conventions for Sander Sides were, like, a **thing**. He kept waiting to wake up, to learn the past ten whirlwind years had been a dream and he was still in high school, scribbling down character notes in the margin of his math homework.

Three books now, with a fourth in editing and due out by end of the year. A spin-off comic series. **A fucking movie. **

A dream...or a flipping nightmare?

One day down, and it had taken all of Virgil's courage not to walk out a dozen times over. So. Many. People. All of them staring, all of them there to see **him**. Only a lifetime of practice had kept him from regressing right there on stage.

"Three more to go," Virgil said to the room, "You've got this."

Fucking right.


End file.
